Night’s acquired perfection and winds shout
– outside your blue window alone I stood,
my mind yielded to null – and crossed to doubt
– broken airplane model from balsa wood.
Foolish the daughters of the gusts – (some thought!),
came to escort sky’s sovereign tears – clouds shed,
you fled above; sepia contrast – and naught,
in air the photograph adheres – my wed.
How the black vastness chose to die – (my soul!)
and in that dream I kissed your palms – and crave,
soul’s longitudes that sing and lie – stand tall,
deep burns this solitude’s realms – engrave.
In air suspending a newspaper folds
remote’s her dance and vain message renders,
her insignificance my spirit holds,
before the blue window my thoughts menders.
© –, G. V., All Rights Reserved
( J’enseigne quand je suis dans l’humeur )
🥇 Favorite Answer
You’ve posted this poem before.
I wouldn’t use parentheses in a poem.
This poem gives me images of a newspaper page blowing around slowly on an old-fashioned narrow cobblestone street between rows of old apartment buildings.